Storm Clouds
by RaspieAspie
Summary: Sherlock has a meltdown, and John is the only one who can help him through it. Based on my own experience with meltdowns. Please R&R! Thanks!


23/5/17

Sherlock

Storm Clouds

John sensed it from the moment he got up that morning. He could feel the tension, the darkness that hung in every room of the small flat.

He had been watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye all day, keeping his distance as the other man wound himself up tighter and tighter, like the strings on his beloved violin.

At present, John stood in the kitchen boiling the kettle, but he was more focused on Sherlock, who was currently pacing through the living room like a trapped animal. At his sides, his long fingers twitched endlessly, as if dancing across piano keys. He kept his head down, and his scruffy mop of dark curls hung in his eyes.

John could see Sherlock's lips moving, repeating a single word over and over. He moved closer in an effort to hear.

"Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles, bubbles," the word came out fast and strained, and John glimpsed just enough of Sherlock's face to see it contorted with pain.

He understood immediately, and went back to the kitchen to switch the boiling kettle off.

Sherlock's fingers stopped twitching for a moment, and his shoulders seemed to relax slightly when he noticed the source of his irritation gone.

John opened the refrigerator door and reached for the bottle of milk, not taking his eyes off his flatmate. He knew Sherlock was in a very precarious place right now, teetering on the edge between calming down and flying off the handle into a full-blown meltdown. Having an autistic genius for a friend was not what he would call easy.

John returned his attention to the task of tea-making, and was immediately horrified. In his hand he held not the milk bottle, but a jar of pickled severed fingers.

Instinctively, he screamed and jumped back, dropping the jar. It shattered all over the floor, spilling formaldehyde and dismembered digits across the linoleum.

It took less than a second for Sherlock to react. He let out a sharp yelp like a kicked puppy and dropped immediately to his knees, pressing his head to the floor as his clenched fists covered his ears.

John ran towards him, ignoring the mess in the kitchen. "Sherlock!" he said urgently, "Sherlock, it's okay, it's fine, it was just me!"

His voice just made things worse. Sherlock's fist began slamming into the side of his head, thump, thump, thump, thump. His other hand clutched his hair, yanking as hard as it could. Sherlock let out a desperate whimpering moan.

Springing to action, John crouched down next to his friend. Ordinarily he knew that touching him would only make things worse, but he had seen the damage Sherlock could do to himself if left to his own devices.

Without hesitating, John reached for Sherlock's wrist just before his fist connected with his head again.

The effect when his skin made contact was instantaneous. Sherlock screamed and clawed his way to his feet in a desperate effort to escape. His case notes, which had been lying in a disorganised heap on the coffee table, went flying in all directions, and Billy the skull, who had been weighing them down, skittered onto the floor with a fragile-sounding 'thunk'.

Ripping himself free of John's grasp, Sherlock screamed again, the shrill, agonised sound of a man being tortured. His fingers clawed at his face as his head slammed into the bullet-riddled wall on the other side of the room.

John ran after him, all but tackling him to the ground as he wrapped both arms around Sherlock's torso and hung on for dear life. He grappled with the man's arms, which were frantically trying to push him off and break free.

Finally, John succeeded in snatching both of Sherlock's wrists and wrenching them behind his back, pinning his arms immobile across each other over his chest.

The heavy pressure that the restraint created had an almost immediate effect. Like a light switch flipping off, Sherlock's whole body went limp, and he sagged to the floor.

John slid with him, and when he was sure that Sherlock was in no more danger of hurting himself, he released his wrists and wrapped both arms around his friend's chest, squeezing as hard as he could.

Exhausted, Sherlock leaned his head sideways onto John's arm, seeming indifferent to the scratchy wool of the doctor's jumper.

For nearly ten minutes they sat this way, in the middle of the floor. Neither man spoke.

Eventually Sherlock made an effort to lift his head up, and he sighed heavily.

John waited a moment, feeling for any remaining tenseness in Sherlock's body. Sensing none, he murmured quietly, "Better?"

Sherlock just nodded once, his head flopping heavily, like his neck wasn't strong enough to support it.

Slowly John released his grip. His arms were stiff and sore thanks to how tightly he'd been holding his friend. "Wait here, I'll be right back," he said, keeping his voice low.

He disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom and reappeared moments later with a large red blanket. It had been sewn into squares, with each square containing a handful of plastic pellets. In total it weighed nearly twenty-five pounds, which should have suffocated a man as thin and lithe as Sherlock, but the consulting detective took great comfort in its density, which could drown out stimuli in a way that covering his ears and closing his eyes never could.

John dropped the blanket onto one end of the sofa and returned to kneel beside Sherlock. "Come on," he said. He held out his hands, offering to help his friend up.

Sherlock nodded once, and John hoisted him up by the elbows, depositing him gently on the sofa. Before he could reach for the blanket, Sherlock's hands shot out and grasped it, yanking it over his body and head as if his life depended on it.

John watched as Sherlock's legs curled up onto the sofa and under the blanket. His whole body was now completely obscured, the only evidence of his presence the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Sliding slowly onto the sofa beside Sherlock, John leaned back and sighed. The kitchen reeked of formaldehyde and human flesh, and the living room looked like a tornado had whisked through and upended everything, but right now, Sherlock was calm. That was what mattered.

John shook his head and chuckled to himself as he dragged both hands over his tired face. No one said being friends with an autistic genius would be easy.


End file.
